Forging a Dark Iron Blade
by Irritable Insanity
Summary: A shorter story, probably, focusing on the backstory of Morangmacar, an OC from Wilds of Eriador and Chance Meetings. Will work in canon characters as appropriate, but this if pretty far pre-War of the Ring. Starts about maybe 290 Third Age


Choosing and Prepare the Ore

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings. That belongs to JRR Tolkien and his descendants.

**AN: This is a sort of a prequel to The Wilds of Eriador. Meant to show Morangmacar's backstory and maybe that of Dinennaur. I will do my best to work canon characters into this later. **

To forge a blade, you must first find good ore. Barring that, you must find ore that you can, through beating and refining, render at least suitable for weapons. You can never make a fine weapon with poor ore, but sometimes a fine weapon isn't what's required for the job at hand.

To Orcs, most women of their kind were little more than a mine. From women came the raw material that they forged the ugly but effective weapons to carve the "rebels", the only folk they hated more than their lord. Lazogrish was one such mine though her status as the eldest and strongest daughter of her father garnered her at least some power. Only the strongest warriors in Rhun would be permitted to delve and draw forth ore, and the strongest of all of those was Dulgatarik the Black Numenorean.

It normally took longer than two or three generations to corrupt Men to the point to breed with Orcs, but Dulgatarik was an especially corrupt sort. He cared little who he took his pleasure with, as long as they were female and could bear him sons who he could use to enhance his own power. Cuthgrush was the head of the largest Orc tribe in Morangbarad's new holdings. Taking his daughter as a mistress would buy the fallen Edan a loyalty that mere fear could never grant.

Numenorean and Orc turned out three children, triplets, in ways that are at best unfit for contemplation. Orcs rarely, if ever, destroyed their own cubs. A race known for scavenging and making do with what they had, Orcs preferred to let even a weak cub live. There was no point in killing something that had even a rough chance of being productive.

This shouldn't be confused with mercy, though; they mostly left the cubs to their own devices. The newborns were only cared for only when they needed their bread-pulp feeding or when their wrapping cloths needed changing. Generally speaking, the strong thrived and the weak either served the strong or died. Cubs learned early on that the physically weak could still be a shield in battle or serve a purpose in fetching food or making crude tools. The harshness of this "society" meant that many an Orc's cub or litter-mate made up the evening mess, but few cared to consider who they were eating and it's likely that none cared enough to pose the question.

Two of Lazogrish's whelps were more or less what their mother and father had hoped for; after this line, and prospered in this harsh life. The male was a great brute from his mother's womb, and his hard fists and sharp teeth quickly taught any of the other cubs not to mock him. The female at first stayed close to her brother, but his sway came to irk her. He was too quick to strike and too slow to understand his "playmates". She joined with his enemies, and the rivalry strengthened both. One of her allies, a weak-limbed cub with a strong mind, made her a tiny bow and some obsidian-tipped arrows. She used these to kill those who earned her displeasure.

The third whelp came close to dying at least twice; his mother almost miscarried, and he came into his harsh world weak and blinking. His arms were spindly, though long, and his breath came and went in short pants. He fought for his life for three days, in which he received all the tender care his dam could give him. She cursed him and thumped him on his little back until he pulled himself back from the brink. The Orcs of Cathgrosh's tribe laughed and hooted at the she-Orc's mothering and his futile attempts to roll away, raising a shaky cry that sounded nothing like his brother's tiny roars.

Krassat, high sergeant of the Black Numenoreans under Dulgatarik, happened to notice the display just as the pup started to gain some strength, about three weeks after his birth. The cub was out of danger but Lazogrish was determine to coax more strength out of him back continual slaps and squeezing. The knight didn't know why he intervened. After all, Numenoreans were even waists and ankles above Orcs in overall worth. Still, the scene was pitiable and it did gall him to see something of this creature's bloodline treated as just another Orc. Even a half-Numenorean was head and shoulders above one of his mother's misbegotten kind. He'd talked to Dulgatarik about it once before, but his captain just shrugged and said that his high sergeant could do as he pleased when it came to the third cub.

He stepped forward, great-sword readied in one hand. A heavy boot caught Lazogrish in the side and a callused hand scooped the whelp up and against the Numenorean's side in the same breath. "If aught of you dogs have aught to say against me and my actions, then let it be with blades. If not, then give me free rein to pass. The wretch comes with me."

Cuthgrush stepped forward and stopped a spear's length away from the man. A long and short scimitar hung in the brute's hands, a clear sign that the Orc did not trust his nominal ally. An Orc trusted nobody over-much, but Krassat knew that Orcs distrusted non-Orcs even more than they did their own kind.

The creature studied him, and then its great, ugly head dipped up and down. "Aye, if so you want it, _tark_. He's a waste of flesh, offerin' not a thing but the entertainment of watchin' him die. Take him and be damned to you both." So it was that Krassat came home to his wife, a captive faithful taken in a raid some years back, with a bundle of wiggling, growling fleshy ore.

**Preparing the Ore **

Krassat prided himself on his skill at turning "iron", raw recruits, into "swords", better known as trained and effective warriors. It was not as easy a task as one might think. A soldier fights as he is trained; if he is trained poorly, then he will fight poorly. Krassat hadn't come to his position as the chief sergeant of Gorgol's keep for nothing. Soldiers he trained, whether they be Numenorean or Easterling, were generally the best in the keep and more than a match for anything in the land except perhaps the royal guard of Rhun.

He planned a similar life for this whelp. He'd taken it in for reasons he didn't understand, and now he had to plan a career for the creature. His preference would be for the child, once grown, to take a good office in the keep or even as a bodyguard to an Easterling noble. That sort of friend would be good to have in these wild times. But that was all in the future. First, the raw material, had to be refined and purified of impurities. A half-Orc would have quiet a few of these impurities, and the process of working him into ingots for "smithing" would take some time. The first step was a bath and fresh cloth.

His wife and slave gave him a wide-eyed look when he entered his stone house with the whelp in his arms. "Bronwenaudiel, fetch soap and water, and fresh blankets and rags. I won't have this wretch filling my house with his stench."

Bronwenaudiel wordlessly bowed and headed into the back of the house. Krassat watched her go and frowned. He counted himself a gentle enough master, but he knew that she counted the name he'd given her a cruel mockery of what she was and what she believed. He didn't care overmuch. She was of the Faithful and so a faith-bound woman was exactly what she was. Still, it wasn't exactly pleasant to his wife's spine stiffen every time he called her by her name.

She came back with a large wooden tub, a cake of soap, and an old blanket. Her features set unpleasantly as he took the blanket from her and pushed the child into her free arm. He draped the clean cloth over one of her shoulders and gestured to the door leading to their side-yard, where their water pump was connected to the well of the keep. . She headed off, muttering things various unfavorable things about her lord in Sindarin. Krassat didn't bother correcting her; she could say what she wanted in the privacy of their home.

For a while, all he could hear from the side-yard was the squeak of the well-pump and the rush of water into the tub. Suddenly, the air was filled with squalling and growling and his wife's exasperated voice. "_Din! Din! Daro!_ You've got healthy enough lungs, I can hear that, but you needn't squirm so much. I won't drown you. Ai! No, no, you do not bite. Do not bite!" The Black Numenorean drew a tankard of beer from the keg and drew up a chair to get a good view of the washing.

Bronwenaudiel did a reasonably good job washing the whelp. Her grip on him was firm, but gentle, and her voice became softer as he seemed to calm down. He still squirmed and tried to bite, but his movements were less frantic and he started to enjoy being in the water. The squalling died down and was finally replaced by a soft, curious rumble. Little clawed hands batted down into the sudsy water, splashing it about. "Keep your eyes closed, child. If I get soap in them, they will sting and burn like a Balrog's whip."

The beast was obviously too young to understand what she said, so she squatted in front of him and squeezed her own eyes shut. The desire to imitate kicked in, and he tightly shut his eyes. Bronwenaudiel opened hers and quickly, but thoroughly washed what little hair he had and pumped fresh water over it. She pulled him, kicking, out of the bath and gave him another quick rinse under the pump before rolling the blanket around and about him.

She came back into the house, dripping water and shaking her head at the creature in her arms. "I think that did something for your scent, little one, but what a watery mess you made of my clothes. Krassat, I see you enjoyed the performance in the side yard. I'd be grateful for your help next time, my lord."

"Men don't wash babies. I'll help feed him, but cleanliness is your domain, woman." He took a pull at his tankard before offering it to the woman. She shifted the cub to one arm and took the mug from the Black Numenorean.

"If you say so, milord. He's heavier for his age than most of the babes I'm seen, either of the Numenor or of Rhun. Is that normal for _yrch?"_

Krassat frowned. "I'm not entirely certain, my wife. They do develop faster than most other folk I've met. Perhaps that is why they infest Arda like maggots in a corpse. One thing I've noticed from watching these foul folk is that they don't nurse their pups. I asked their chieftain about it some years back and he said that they feed the newborns a sort of pap of bread and whatever milk they have handy. Meat and mashed tubers and blood are sometimes added, depending on the wealth of the tribe and the willingness of the cub's sire and dam to care for it."

Bronwenaudiel's nose wrinkled. "Bread we have, milk we have. We don't have tubers, or meat suitable for his teeth, or blood. And I will not give him the latter."

"I might give him it, but finding blood away from the Orcish markets would be troublesome, and I won't have you going there. You could give him the meat raw. Orcs don't get sick from eating raw flesh, and that might be a fine substitute for blood."

"My husband, may I ask you a question?"

Krassat sighed. He knew the question almost before she asked it. "Ask away, Bronwenaudiel."

"Why? Why have you picked a pup from the Orcs? I know I am barren, and cannot give you sons, and could understand you adopting a child from the Easterlings or your own people. What I don't understand is why you had to pick a _perorch_. It's not yours, is it?"

The Black Numenorean's face turned hard and decidedly unpleasant. "Don't you dare accuse me of such a thing, fool! I may not follow your precious Valar and Eru, but I would never debauch myself with the maggot-folk as my captain has done. I would consider such a thing still less when I had a wife at home. I don't know why I chose him, but I did. I am your husband and master, and I do not need my decisions questioned so! Now get to market before the cub starts squalling."

The woman bowed her head and headed for the door, stopping only to grab a basket. She left the house with a _perorch _on one arm and a basket hanging off the other. She knew she'd crossed a line. Krassat was not a good man, but he was better than most of his kind. Infidelity was as unthinkable to him. Still, it was a question that had more or less ripped itself out of her without much thought.

Krassat watched her go and stalked about, cursing. He had a temper, he knew that well. She may have been one of the faithful and a slave, but she was also his wife. He shouldn't lose his temper and bellow so. Far fallen as the Faithful thought Black Numenoreans where, there were still some old codes of honor amongst them.

He frowned deeply and headed upstairs to the terrace to smoke and ponder over things. A name. The whelp needed a name. He hated the thought of giving an Adunaic name to something with such vile blood in its veins, but he knew little of the names of the Easterlings and would die before giving his adopted son an Orcish name. He sat, casting his mind about for possible names before rising with a grunt and knocking the ashes in his pipe out.

Bronwenaudiel returned a moment later, staggering under the weight of a full basket and a wiggling child. The high sergeant quickly moved to relieve her of the former. "Milk? Three small bottles?" He pulled one out and removed its clay stopper. It smelled like milk.

His wife had been busy with the child, and only noticed what he was doing with the milk. A look of horror crossed her face. "No! Don't drink….." Too late, as the Black Numenorean tipped the bottle back and took a sip.

"It's not bad. It doesn't take of cow or goat, though. What sort of milk is it, woman?"

Horror was replaced by ill-concealed amusement. "Errrr….ahhheh. That is Warg's milk. I came across Cuthgrush and he recommended it to me." Krassat hastily set the bottle down and put its stopper back in its place, feeling slightly sickened. "I'll set them down in the coolest part of our cellar. Take care of little Karan while I do that and then fix his dinner."

"Karan? You gave him an Adunaic name?"

"You'd never give him a Sindarin or Quenya name. Orcish and Easterling names are right out as well. That leaves Adunaic. "Cleave" sounds appropriate for his ancestry, doesn't it."

Krassat frowned. "I….I suppose it is as good as any. What of my dinner?"

"You are older and can wait, husband. The child hasn't eaten all day unless I put my shot afoul. If you re desperately hungry, there is horseradish paste and bread in the larder and some smoked ham in the loft. I have a fine stew cooking away, but there's some time yet before it is ready."

The Black Numenorean scowled down at the baby pressed into his arms. "You…" He caught himself and shook his head. A child was going to change things in this house, that was always a given. Still, his dinner being late. Such a thing had never happened before.

The next years were spent training to teach manners to a creature ill-suited to such things. It was a long and difficult path, but one neccesary to clean and ready the ore for its forging.


End file.
